


Sun Kissed

by static_abyss



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Awkward Crush, Boys In Love, Canon Compliant, Canonical Character Death, Freckles, Fred Weasley Lives, Friends to Lovers, Getting Together, Growing Up Together, M/M, Minor Cho Chang/Cedric Diggory, Minor Cho Chang/Harry Potter, Minor Harry Potter/Others, Minor Hermione Granger/Ron Weasley, Minor Lavender Brown/Ron Weasley, Minor Seamus Finnigan/Dean Thomas, Minor Seamus Finnigan/Dean Thomas/Ron Weasley, Past Hermione Granger/Ron Weasley, Pre-Relationship, Requited Unrequited Love, TasteofSmut 2020, Touch, mentioned sexual content (not ron/harry), sight, unrequited Cedric Diggory/Harry Potter - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-08
Updated: 2020-08-08
Packaged: 2021-03-04 23:54:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,603
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25195006
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/static_abyss/pseuds/static_abyss
Summary: Harry notices the freckles the first time they meet, the light dusting across Ron's face as he stands there in his maroon knitted jumper with the yellow R in the centre. If Harry didn't know any better, he'd swear he could trace the tendrils of a lightning bolt from Ron's nose down to his cheek. Something warm settles in Harry's chest at the knowledge that, perhaps, Ron carries a piece of Harry, no matter how unknowingly. It's proof of a connection between them, the first real tangible relationship Harry's ever had that is good and whole and wanted.Or how Harry falls in love with every one of Ron's freckles long before he realises he's in love with his best friend.
Relationships: Harry Potter/Ron Weasley
Comments: 62
Kudos: 299
Collections: Taste of Smut Fest





	Sun Kissed

**Author's Note:**

  * For [](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts).



> I'll claim this prompt and write something cute and short, I said. It won't take too long, I said. I can do it in my sleep, I said. And yet, somehow, here we are 13k later. 
> 
> Thank you to [harrypotterfanfictionwriter](https://harrypotterfanfictionwriter.tumblr.com/) for checking that I wasn't just writing nonsense at 3am. Many thanks as always to [pineau-noir](https://pineau-noir.tumblr.com/). She is amazing and I would be lost without her. Thank you to unicorn-in-the-library for the lovely prompt. I enjoyed writing this so much. Thanks to the mods for hosting this fest, and to all those people in the world who were like, you know what we need? More Ron/Harry.

Harry notices the freckles the first time they meet, the light dusting across Ron's face as he stands there in his maroon knitted jumper with the yellow R in the centre. The colour makes his hair look darker and it's easier to see the patterns across Ron's face as he nods to the empty seat across from Harry. 

"This seat taken?" Ron asks. 

Harry stares, not used to people talking to him unless they have to. Even at school, with Dudley there, the kids had known better than to get involved with Harry in any way. But Ron stands at the door like he's waiting for something so Harry shakes his head and tucks his legs closer to his seat, even though there's more than enough room. He's used to making himself smaller so that he doesn't intrude. And he watches fascinated as Ron just stores his trunk and takes his seat without getting into Harry's space. 

It's nice to sit in the train compartment, the trees and fields rushing by on Harry's right as Ron points at Harry's forehead. He's pleased when Ron gets excited. He talks about his brothers and Harry lets his eyes wander over this pale boy with freckles across his nose and down the sides of his face. Ron's ears are almost too big for his head, he has a smudge of dirt on the side of his nose, and his hair is a messy disarray, long enough to cover Ron's forehead but too short to tie back. 

He offers Harry his sandwiches and Harry buys too many sweets and they sit together in the Hogwarts Express, trying to see who can fit more Bertie Bott's Every Flavoured Beans into their mouths. Harry's not used to the outlandish tastes, the sour milk getting the better of him. He loses because Ron swallows his mouthful and doesn't spit it back up. 

The sandwiches are delicious, even though they don't get to them until the train ride is almost over. Harry goes through two sandwiches before he remembers himself and reins in the sudden hunger. He feels his cheeks burn but Ron tosses him another sandwich like it's nothing.

"Thanks," Harry says. 

Ron shrugs. "Doing me a favour, honestly. Mum knows I hate corned beef, but too many kids I guess. She forgets."

He's quiet afterwards. Harry hears the uncertainty underneath, recognises the sounds of someone ignored. 

"Have another chocolate frog," Harry says, tossing a handful at Ron. "But I get to keep any of the cards you already have."

Ron grins an easy boyish smile that lights up his face. "Cheers," he says, scrubbing at his nose and the dusting of freckles.

-

Harry starts tracing the patterns Ron's freckles make, later, when Ron's been around long enough that Harry knows he's not going anywhere. 

They're sitting on the floor in the centre of the Boys' Dormitory, their presents laid out in front of them, the stack of sweets dwindling nicely. Ron's wearing his maroon jumper with the yellow R and holding a small mirror up in front of himself to get a good look at his face. The weak winter sun shines through their window and Harry can't help but notice that Ron's still got the freckles, lighter now but unmistakably there.

"Are those permanent?" Harry asks, following the constellations on Ron's face. 

"Are what permanent?" Ron asks, shifting sideways so that his back is to Harry and his face towards the sunlight. 

Harry gestures at his cheeks. "The...you know...it's winter," he says.

"Oh, the freckles? Dunno. Might be," Ron says, inspecting his face in the mirror. "Don't know why they're still there since there's no bloody sun all winter. Mum reckons I get it from Dad's side. His don't really go away either. Fred and George have almost nothing now."

Ron shrugs, still looking into the mirror. From his spot on the floor, Harry can see Ron's reflection even though Ron can't see him. He takes the opportunity to follow the pattern Ron's freckles make across his face, to connect the dots. If Harry didn't know any better, he'd swear he could trace the tendrils of a lightning bolt from Ron's nose down to his cheek. 

Something warm settles in Harry's chest at the knowledge that, perhaps, Ron carries a piece of Harry, no matter how unknowingly. It's proof of a connection between them, the first real tangible relationship Harry's ever had that is good and whole and wanted. 

"Do you reckon they make me look a little...ginger?" Ron asks.

He turns to look at Harry so Harry looks carefully. He lets his eyes wander down Ron's cheeks, across the bridge of his nose. Some of Ron's freckles stand darker than the other ones, most of them almost faded to nothing. He's paler too, because of the winter, because there's less sun. Harry looks at him, eyes narrowed in concentration, but he can't see anything aside from Ron, wide grin and too big ears. 

"I mean," Harry says, shrugging helplessly. "You are ginger?"

Ron frowns. "Yeah," he says. "I suppose. Only Fred and George said that girls don't like freckles."

"Wouldn't know," Harry says. "Only girl we know is Hermione."

"Kinda hard to imagine asking her what she thinks," Ron says, picking up the mirror again. 

"I like them," Harry says, the indecision on Ron's face making him honest. 

"Yeah?" Ron asks, grins when Harry nods.

He turns back to the mirror but this time he turns to Harry, away from the light. He tilts his head to the side, smooths out his sweater. 

"I like them too," Ron says, a simple eleven-year-old boy's truth. 

That is, after all, all they are. 

*

Summer at The Burrow before their Second Year is full of sunlight, splashes of yellow that turn orange at sunset. It's mornings sleeping in Ron's room, the blinds never pulled tight enough to keep the early morning rays from hitting them right in the face. They can never sleep later than eight in the morning because Harry wakes to the sun across the bed, the heat making him sweat. 

He always wakes first, which is important because it allows him enough time to look around Ron's room, to take in the horrible orange sheets and the Quidditch posters. Sometimes, if he's woken very early, he'll get up and stretch, watch the way the sun crawls across Ron's face, lighting up the freckles on his face. He tries not to laugh as Ron scrunches his face against the light and tries to crawl further into his bedsheets. 

Sometimes, he'll pull the blinds open wider just to see Ron murmur in his sleep. He'll wait just long enough for Ron to come half-awake and then leave to shower. Always, when he comes back, Ron's already sitting up, eyes half-closed, his hair a mess. 

"Good morning, Harry," he'll say. "Do your best friend a favour and close the bloody blinds."

"Not a morning person, I see," Harry will say without fail.

Depending on the morning, Ron will either answer or throw his pillow at Harry. Always, no matter what, Harry will pull the blinds closed and pretend his heart doesn't feel close to bursting at Ron's words. 

He's never been anyone's best friend before Ron.

-

Summer at The Burrow means Quidditch in the Weasleys' backyard. It means that even though Mrs Weasley hasn't forgiven Ron, Fred, or George for taking the car, she's willing to keep score. Harry and Ron fight over Fred's old broom. Sometimes, Harry wins and sometimes, Ron wins. But always, Harry uses Fred's broom under Mrs Weasley's careful eye. 

"He's your guest, Ron," she says.

"Guest my arse," Ron whispers, so low Harry almost misses it, but he grins when they're up in the air and the sun hits him just right. 

That summer, the freckles on Ron's cheeks get so dark, they're almost brown. The ones on his nose turn reddish-brown and start to crawl towards his forehead. He never gets any there though, his hair still too long for too much sun. 

Harry catches Ron frowning at his reflection in the mirror more than once. More than once, they pretend that Harry didn't catch Ron. They're older now and twelve-year-olds don't tell their friends how much they like their freckles.

*

Ron gets taller in the summer between their Third Year, significantly enough that Harry notices it when they walk next to each other. He also starts paying attention to the acne that's started to grow along his forehead where his hair falls. 

"I could cut the bangs," Ron says, frowning at his reflection in the bathroom mirror of their dormitory. 

The others are out, Dean and Seamus always up to something even when the days start to get rainier. Neville goes along with them because even though he hates the loud bangs of Seamus's experiments, he likes to feel included. A little like Ron, if Ron were an only child. As it is, most of the others avoid Harry when they can because of the Dementors, because of Sirius Black.

"Fred and George said the acne is probably because of the hair," Ron says.

Harry looks at him and he can't figure out why he's suddenly uncomfortable with Ron talking about these things. It's not like they haven't spoken about the shape of Ron's nose or the way his ears might seem too large for his head. Harry's told him about feeling intrusive, about worrying whether he's eating more than he has a right to. Ron knows about the scars along Harry's legs from where he fell down too many times after Dudley pushed him. 

They're the kind of friends who give each other advice, who provide quick reassurances. It's never been embarrassing before. 

"You should ask Hermione," Harry says. "Girls know about that sort of thing."

"It's not just for girls though, is it?" Ron says, turning back to Harry. "Don't want these getting out of control. One of Mum's cousins let himself go and next thing he knew, he had Dragon Pox."

"Dragon Pox?" Harry asks, feeling wrong-footed and not knowing why.

"Yeah," Ron says, running a hand through his hair.

It's longer than it was last year and Harry still hasn't asked Ron how he managed to keep Mrs Weasley's scissors away. Harry watches Ron turn back to the bathroom mirror. He pushes his hair away from his face and frowns at his reflection. The freckles are starting to fade, something light brown rather than the deep reddish-brown they were when Harry and Ron met up at the Leaky Cauldron. Egypt had brought out the colour on Ron's face and the sun must have done him good because he'd looked better somehow. 

He still looks good now, something about his features seeming to fit in perfect harmony on his face. He's taller too and he's only just hitting his growth spurt. Harry can imagine how much taller than him Ron will be and, for some reason, knowing that troubles him.

"But for real, mate," Harry says. "You should ask Hermione. I'm rubbish at this."

Ron glances at him through the mirror, something almost hurt flashing across his expression for a moment. Harry opens his mouth to say something but Ron grins, easy and friendly.

"Okay," he says. "I'll ask Hermione but if she laughs at me, I'm coming for your head."

Ron asks Hermione the next day, comes back with three different jars and a small tube of clear jelly. He lays out the creams and cleansers on Harry's bed, points out what everything is for. 

"Tell no one," Ron says.

Harry half-laughs. "Tell who what?" he asks. "I didn't understand half of what you said."

Ron nods. "You wouldn't," he says. "Hermione said someone with your skin could never understand."

Harry laughs but the unsettling feeling is back, lying at the centre of his stomach. It feels like a combination of embarrassment and annoyance, though about what and at who, he doesn't know. He watches Ron put the creams into his bedside table drawer, watches Ron wash his face. He rubs so hard, Harry thinks he's going to scrub the freckles off. But Ron emerges from the stream of water, his skin starting to turn a deep red, freckles intact. 

"Are you sure you're doing that right?" Harry asks, wincing in sympathy as Ron scrubs his towel over his face. 

Ron shrugs. "Dunno," he says. "Can't be worse than doing nothing."

The creams work because they came from Hermione and she knows everything. Harry and Ron watch in marvel as week after week, there's fewer acne on Ron's face. His skin clears and smooths out and Harry finds his eyes wandering down the dusting of freckles on Ron's nose. He starts tracing clouds along Ron's cheek with his eyes, little birds in the shape of a V, and the tendrils of a bolt of lightning.

This time though, he makes sure that Ron never catches him watching. 

*

Ron spends a lot of time with Hermione during their Fourth Year, not just in the summer but also at the beginning of the school year. Moreso when Ron gets mad because he thinks Harry's lying to him about putting his name in the Goblet of Fire. 

Harry can't understand why Ron doesn't believe him, but he's almost glad for the distance, for the silence Hermione offers him. She doesn't talk much when they sit together, though these days, she's mostly with Ron or with Lavender and Parvati when Ron and Harry have said something to annoy her. She spends a lot of time with Ron, their heads bent together over their work. 

Harry watches them from across the Gryffindor Common Room, the anger simmering low in his chest. He doesn't understand why it makes him so angry that Ron gets to keep Hermione, why Hermione has to sneak out to help Harry prepare for the First Task. It makes him even angrier to notice that Ron's grown again over the summer, stretched enough that he's properly tall now, his limbs almost lanky. He towers above most of the other boys in their year, his red hair easy to spot in a crowd. 

Harry does his best to avoid Ron, lets the anger and annoyance guide him to the days leading up the First Task. He talks to Cedric instead, lets him know about the dragons, and the way Cedric smiles at him, easy and charming, hits Harry differently. It's as though something warm is spreading over Harry's chest, the heat crawling up to his neck and his face. He watches Cedric walk away, feels his eyes follow the slope of Cedric's shoulders, the way his hair moves.

Cho smiles at him the next day and it's almost as though Harry already knows what to expect. It's the same warmth, the same wrong-footedness. He feels like he doesn't fit in his skin, as though his fingers are too thick for his hands. Every time Cho walks by or smiles at him, it takes everything in Harry to keep going. It happens when Cedric touches his shoulder right before the First Task, the warmth of his fingers spreading down Harry's back, his heart thumping loudly in his chest. 

It's all so embarrassing, Harry doesn't know what to do.

He doesn't think about it, especially not after he makes it through the First Task and Ron comes up to him in the Champions' Tent. He walks in after Hermione, his eyes on the dirt, a spot of red crawling up the side of his face. When he looks up, his face is pale, the red-brown of his freckles standing in sharp contrast against his skin. Harry takes a step back, gives himself room away from both Ron and Hermione.

He finds that he's annoyed that they're here together, though he knows rationally that it's only because they care. But Hermione's standing so close to Ron and Ron's not looking at Harry. It feels like they're a united front against him and he tries not to feel left out.

"I…" Ron starts. "I don't think you put your name in the Goblet of Fire. Not unless you're fucking mental. Although, knowing you, that might still be a possibility."

Ron looks up, a tentative smile on his face. Harry notices the fingernail marks on the back of Ron's hand, the perfect Hermione-made indentations. Suddenly, Harry realises that they have an audience. He can feel Hermione's eyes on the side of his face, something heavy that makes Harry's skin itch.

"Finally caught on, have you?" Harry says, cold and harsh.

He hears the words leave his mouth, sees Ron flinch against the unspoken accusations. 

"Listen," Ron says, stepping forward. "I shouldn't have—"

"No," Harry interrupts, taking a step back and trying not to seem as though he's running away. "Forget it."

But Ron shakes his head. "Listen, mate," he says, his ears turning pink at the tips. "I...Mum...that is...I'm not used to you leaving me behind."

The words come out rushed, mingling together so that Harry can pretend he didn't hear them. They hang between them, horrid heavy things that remind Harry of his years with the Dursleys. He remembers staying at home while the Dursleys went to celebrate Dudley's birthday, the number of times he'd wanted someone to notice him and they hadn't. He thinks of all the people in school who'd turned away from him, thinks of how lonely he'd been before Ron. Before the sandwiches and the sweets on the Hogwarts Express. He thinks of summers at The Burrow and the sunlight in the morning. 

He finds that he misses Ron horribly, an ache so deep Harry doesn't know how he didn't notice it before. 

"I wouldn't," Harry says. "Not without you."

Ron looks down at his feet, the large red spots on the side of his face bordering the freckles along his cheekbones. Harry feels it again, that low thrum of embarrassment, something uncomfortable that makes him wish Ron and Hermione would leave. He doesn't understand why it's so hard to just look at Ron when they're being honest. He can't quite place that restlessness that tells him he should run.

"Forget it," Harry insists. "It's done."

"Okay," Ron says, and it's a relief when Ron grins.

Harry smiles back and everything settles into place for a moment. 

Then, Hermione bursts into tears and the faint wrongness is back, settling like a band across Harry's chest. He rubs his eyes, pushes aside the feeling and laughs when Ron shakes his head sadly in Hermione's direction.

-

Harry dreams about Ron in the summer sun, the dusting of freckles across his face, on his forehead, all over the sides of his cheeks. He dreams of the Hungarian Horntail and Ron's face in the Champions' Tent, of Hermione with her hand in Ron's, their heads bent over their work. He wakes to a dark dormitory more times than he can count in the days leading up to the Yule Ball.

The old, out-of-place feeling is back, as though Harry doesn't quite fit in his skin. He feels as though someone has replaced his body with a stranger's. His limbs don't listen to him. His hair is too long. The smooth features of his face are starting to sharpen. He starts staring at himself in mirrors the way Ron does, tries to catch what about himself seems appealing, what the girls who watch him might see. He can't figure out if his eyes are green or hazel or a combination of both. 

They ask Padma and Parvati to the Yule Ball, even though Harry knows Ron asked Hermione and she said no. The wrongness of that settles into Harry's bones as they make their way into the Great Hall for their first dance. He watches Hermione dancing with Viktor Krum, watches the way Ron watches the two of them. There's something there that Harry can't quite place, a look in Ron's eyes that Hermione does her best to avoid.

But Ron doesn't get up all night from his spot next to Harry, not even when Padma and Parvati leave them for some Beauxbaton boys. He sits there, his eyes on Hermione, a blush high on his cheeks. Harry watches him when he's not watching Cho and Cedric, when his eyes aren't captivated by the way the two of them move. Harry doesn't understand why he can't stop looking at them, why the itch under his skin is somehow sharper when the two of them are together. 

He imagines it's the same for Ron, and knowing that Hermione and Viktor Krum can cause the same feelings in Ron that Harry feels is interesting in its newness. He watches the colour on Ron's cheek, imagines he can feel the heat radiating from Ron next to him. 

They sit together, spend the entire night in their own misery. Ron fights with Hermione and she says something that sounds so close to "finally caught on, have you," that Harry can't pretend he misheard it. He watches Hermione storm off, her periwinkle dress robes floating around her as she goes. He watches Ron in his maroon dress ensemble, Cho and Cedric walking by arm in arm. 

Ron turns, his face red, angry and frustrated. "Well now, she's got that all wrong, hasn't she?"

Cho looks beautiful in her golden dress robes, Cedric matching her in his. They walk off together, their laughter happy and clear above the noise of the students around them. Harry follows them with his eyes, lets himself really feel the tightness in his chest, the nervous beat of his heart. He's still watching them when Ron clears his throat.

"What?" Harry asks, knowing he's been caught.

Ron stares after Cho and Cedric and Harry's heart thumps louder, faster in his chest. He looks around for anything to distract Ron, to keep his attention away from the two of them. It suddenly seems so important that Ron not stare too long. Harry doesn't want Ron to come to the wrong conclusions, doesn't know himself what those conclusions might be. He turns away from Cho and Cedric, looks out into the Great Hall where Neville and Ginny are still dancing, both of them laughing. 

She looks lovely in her silver dress robes, her hair combed out and shining. Harry stares at her, at how much she resembles Fred and George, how little of Ron lives on her face. She has the same freckles, the darker ones that don't always fade in the winter. But Ginny pulls back her hair in the summer so there's more reddish-brown on her forehead than on Ron's, more dots to connect. Maybe too many.

Harry shakes himself, embarrassed and appalled that he'd think that about Ginny. He likes her well enough, likes her all the more because she's Ron's sister, a part of the Weasleys, family through Ron. 

"What are you looking at?" Ron asks.

Harry turns, feels his face heat at being caught. "Nothing," he says.

"Are you looking at Ginny?" Ron asks in a careful, neutral voice.

Harry looks up at him, all his graceless height, his messy hair, and the red on the sides of his face. Ron eyes him suspiciously and Harry almost wishes they were looking at Cho and Cedric again. The moment feels heavy with meaning that Harry never meant to assign it. He takes a step back, makes a show of looking over at Neville and Ginny.

"Neville's quite fit, isn't he?" Harry says.

He doesn't realise how little he's joking until he sees Ron trying to fight off a smile. 

"Didn't take Neville for your type, mate," Ron says, turning to look into the Great Hall.

He's standing next to Harry so Harry notices for the hundredth time that year how much taller Ron's gotten. He'd have to lean down to tell Harry his secrets now. Though Harry's noticed that lately, Ron seems to turn to Hermione for those kinds of things. They talk less about what bothers them, less about what Ron sees in the bathroom mirror, less about how awkward he feels in his new skin. Ron hasn't mentioned anything about the dusting of freckles above his eyebrow, something new that hasn't faded all the way yet. 

Harry shrugs, feeling flayed open. He's not embarrassed this time, not about the confusing things he feels for Cedric and Cho. Worry settles deep in his bones as Ron looks at Neville, as Harry waits for the inevitable judgement. He feels like it has to happen because it's happened before when one of Dudley's friends had caught him staring at another boy a little too long. Harry wishes he knew how to make his brain believe that Ron wasn't Dudley and his friends. But he can't stop the way he tenses, the way he waits for the ridicule. 

He thinks Ron understands, in a way. Something about them both being a little left behind, growing up just to the side, never the spotlight. Even now, Harry isn't used to people wanting to talk to him and shake his hand. The same way Ron isn't used to having Harry's undivided attention, though neither of them ever really say it aloud. 

"I always pegged you as more of a Dean admirer," Ron says. "Figured you liked tall fit blokes."

Harry doesn't understand why it's harder to breathe or why his heart feels like it's at his throat. Ron looks at him from the corner of his eyes, something sly and knowing in his expression. For a moment, Harry feels horribly exposed.

"You know," Ron says when Harry keeps quiet. "Cedric Diggory is also tall and fit."

Harry feels the warmth along his cheekbones and he's annoyed that Ron seems composed now. There's no trace of his earlier frustration as he looks at Harry, openly grinning. 

_Caught on, have you,_ Harry thinks, feeling mean. 

"I reckon I fancy Cho too," he says, fighting off the heat on his cheeks as he stares straight ahead. 

"Oh," Ron says, sounding surprised. 

Harry turns to him, sees the pensive expression on his face before he goes oddly still. The red is back on his cheeks, right along the border of his freckles, a bright spot that highlights just how much colour lives on Ron's face. Harry's looking at him so he notices the way Ron's eyes drift to Viktor Krum, surrounded by Durmstrang students, his head thrown back in laughter. 

"Oh," Ron says again. 

_Caught on, have you,_ Harry thinks again, and an unpleasant stab in the centre of his chest accompanies the thought.

*

It takes him too long to find Ron after Dumbledore shows up at the Atrium and battles Voldemort. There's shouting and people rushing past Harry as he scrambles to his feet, shaking and afraid. He catches up to Ginny, Luna, and Neville in the room with the rotating doors. They're panting but unhurt. The biggest complaint is a cut across Neville's brow bone. 

Harry's relieved for a moment as he looks them over but then they tell him they don't know where Ron went. So Harry pushes his way through to the room with the tank of brains, thinking of the tentacles and how they'd wrapped around Ron's arms. He ignores the people calling his name until he hears Hermione. 

"Harry," she says from somewhere to his left.

Harry stops running, looks around until he sees her huddled between Tonks and Kingsley Shacklebolt. She stands and they meet in the middle, Harry pulling her into a tight hug, relief washing over him when he sees that she's okay.

"Ron?" he asks as soon as they've pulled away.

Hermione's crying properly now, her tears rolling down her cheeks and into her robes. Harry feels his whole body tense, cold to the bones as he waits for Hermione to pull herself together. 

"He's okay," Tonks says, coming up to them, her wand clutched in her hand as she surveys the room they're in.

Harry can hear the sounds of approaching feet, someone calling out Cornelius Fudge's name in the distance. Someone calls for Harry but he can't hear past Tonk's "he's okay." The sudden relief catches him by surprise. It's as though all his muscles have loosened at the same time and it's only Hermione's fingers digging into his shoulder that keeps him upright.

"Where is he?" Harry asks.

"St. Mungo's," Hermione says. "The curse and those brain things. I don't know exactly what happened. There were too many people trying to hurt us. I didn't know what to do."

"It's okay," Harry says, surprised at the gentleness in his tone. 

She hugs him again and Harry pulls her close, not bothering to tell her that her tears are getting his shoulder wet. Hermione cries and Harry breathes against the tightness in his chest. There's too much to do before they're allowed to see Ron, too many people asking questions. Dumbledore gets carted off to keep the press at bay and Tonks and Moody keep watch over Harry, Hermione, Luna, Ginny, and Neville until they can sneak them out of the Ministry.

Too many Healers ask Harry how he feels and there's just not enough time for Harry to really answer their questions. He snaps at three of them, yanks his arm away from a particularly aggressive Healer. 

"Where's Ron?" he asks too many times.

He knows the Healers are annoyed at him but Hermione's in a different room and they should have known better than to separate them. Eventually, someone wiser catches on and Harry and Hermione get put in the same room. That's only marginally better as Harry takes up pacing in the reduced space. His thoughts keep straying to Ron's scared laughter, how Harry had just left him there. 

"Harry, please," Hermione says, wringing her hands. "Can you just try to sit still for a minute."

Harry stops moving, his body reacting to the anxiety in her voice automatically. He looks at her, at the hard press of her lips and the mess of curls on her head. Harry walks over to her and takes her hand. Together, they wait for someone to come get them.

It's Mr Weasley, in the end, who remembers Harry and Hermione. He's wide-eyed, the bags under his eyes stark against his pale face. He hugs them both and when he pulls away, Harry notices that the freckles on Mr Weasley's face are nothing like Ron's. They don't form the same patterns. There aren't tendrils of electricity on Mr Weasley's face, despite the placement of his freckles. Ron's version is better, the patterns there familiar to Harry.

"Is he okay?" Harry asks.

Mr Weasley nods and takes them to another room. All the Weasleys are already there, huddled around Ron's bed in silence. Aside from Mrs Weasley, they're all tall, the lot of them, all of them with red hair and pale skin, freckles on their noses and foreheads. None of them are Ron. None of them have quite the same amount of freckles. 

Hermione's still holding Harry's hand as they stand together at the foot of Ron's bed, another pair of guardians watching over him. Because it's allowed, Harry takes his time to really look at Ron. He's asleep, paler than normal. He'd been lucky this year and had kept out of the sun just enough that most of his freckles are gone. Harry knows there's some on the back of his neck, across his shoulders because Ron hadn't always worn sleeved-shirts when he'd gone on his runs over the summer. He'd always remembered a hat though.

"The face is the most important thing, Harry," he'd said. "Though I suppose it matters how much muscle a guy has, too."

He'd stare at Harry then as though waiting for his opinion. As though it was okay for them to talk about boys the same way they talked about girls. As though their bodies weren't extremely embarrassing. 

Harry had told him about kissing Cho and all the things he hadn't been able to say in front of Hermione. How different it'd been from what he'd imagined, how he sometimes still wonders what it would have been like with Cedric. So many things Harry had only been able to say at night, whispered into their silent dormitory, the words easily lost to the darkness. 

If Harry couldn't see Ron, then Ron wouldn't know how much it'd cost Harry to say those things aloud. It hadn't seemed right to tell Ron, to put into words the confusing things Harry feels. Things have been off for years, as though Ron and Harry don't quite fit at the edges. Harry thinks it's his own fault. Something happened somewhere between their Third Year and their Fourth that disrupted things between them. He'd say it was Ron knowing Harry liked both Cedric and Cho but Harry knows the problems started earlier, when he'd looked at Ron in the sunlight and had been caught off-guard.

Hermione squeezes Harry's hand hard and when Harry turns to look at her, he knows she knows. Dismayed, he tries to find an explanation for the way his heart hurts as it beats in his chest. He wants to say that it's not what she's thinking, even though Harry doesn't know exactly what Hermione's thinking.

He feels it in her sympathetic eyes though. Knows deep down that Hermione has figured him out. She's caught him perfectly, in a room full of Ron's loved ones, where to deny it is to lay himself open in the worst way.

She looks at him and Harry remembers her in periwinkles dress robes, her eyes bright with anger as Ron accused her of liking the enemy.

_Caught on, have you._

He looks back at Ron lying on the hospital bed, all the sharp angles of his face, the softness of his mouth in sleep. Pale skin and red hair, so much colour on Ron's person, so much life. He's taller than Harry, though Harry's caught up significantly this year. Even still as Ron is now, Harry can tell that all the exercising has paid off, that Ron isn't only his best friend but also a guy. Like Cedric was. Attractive. Charming.

 _Finally caught on, have you,_ Harry thinks and it's all so painfully obvious now that he's let himself think it. The wrongness of their interactions, the embarrassment as though he didn't know how to be around Ron. Even the distance as he'd tried to hide from the truth, to protect himself. All of it makes sense as Harry finally really looks at Ron and admits that he wants him, all of him, in whatever way he can have him.

-

Ron wakes and Harry isn't there, can't be there because Sirius is dead and Dumbledore has half-arsed explanations. He's furious and at first, for some reason, Harry's ashamed of what Ron might say if he sees him. Then he feels only relief as he imagines Ron raging with him, always there, always supportive. The one thing that Harry would miss most in the world. 

Hermione says nothing when Harry comes back from Dumbledore's office. She doesn't warn him so he's caught off guard when he climbs the stairs to the Boys' Dormitory and sees Ron standing alone in the dark. He's still pale, long angry marks on his arms from the tentacles. Just another shade to add to all the other colours Ron carries on his body. Harry looks at him, doesn't know where to start. 

"Something's wrong, isn't it?" Ron asks, looking down at his feet.

His face is bright red, splotches of it across his cheeks. Harry watches fascinated as the freckles on Ron's face fade into the background. He finds quite suddenly that he's no longer scared of this confrontation. Nothing like the embarrassment of fifteen-year-old boys to bring them back on even footing. 

"What do you mean?" Harry asks.

He can feel the heat along the back of his neck and the sweat gathering at his palms. Irrationally, he thinks Ron knows, that something got out and Ron's standing before Harry waiting to reject him. To tell him that friends don't find other friends attractive. Mates don't lose it when the other goes missing. That Harry's being weird and Ron's tired of it, that he wants out. 

"I noticed it last year," Ron says, eyes still on the ground.

His voice sounds painfully forced, as though it's costing him everything to say these words. Harry looks at him and finds he doesn't want to hear them. Better never to know than to have to admit that he knows exactly how much taller Ron is than him. Better to walk away before Harry lets it slip that he's memorised all the shapes and patterns Ron's freckles make on his face. 

"Something's off, mate," Ron goes on. "I don't...I just want to make sure we're really okay. I...I get it if I'm a lot and...ever since the thing with Sirius in Third Year...I didn't mean anything. I—"

He falters and Harry goes back in his memories for why Ron would bring up Sirius, why Third Year. He vividly remembers Ron standing on a broken leg, shaking and pale, telling Sirius that he'd have to kill them first before he got to Harry. How the summer before Third Year, Harry blew up Aunt Marge and ran away to Diagon Alley. How their letters in the summer before Fourth Year had been shorter than usual because Harry hadn't known how to handle the sudden embarrassment of being fourteen and realising he found blokes attractive. He thinks of that whole messy Fourth Year, of Cedric and Cho, of Ron's laughter as he'd mentioned Dean. Harry hadn't written much this summer because he hadn't known how to write to Ron in a way that hadn't sounded forced or strange. 

It's not Ron. 

It's never been Ron. It's always Harry and his inability to be a competent human being. It's Harry now too, painfully aware of Ron as another guy, not knowing what that means for them as friends. He's embarrassed and angry at himself, annoyed that even now he can't stop his eyes from wandering over Ron's face, down his shoulders, over to where his shirt covers his collarbone. 

"I don't think you're a lot," Harry says. "I thought it was—"

He stops, the heat crawling up his back and onto his face. He looks down at the ground too, focused on the pattern in the red and gold carpet. He can see Ron's shoes, worn leather but still shining. Harry feels the knot in his chest and he appreciates just how hard this is for Ron. Terrible to say these things aloud even though he might mean them. Especially because he means them. 

"I thought it was brave you stood up to Sirius when you thought he was a murderer," Harry says, quickly. "I would never think you're a lot."

Harry pauses, waits until Ron chances a glance. 

He smirks. "Even though you are," he says, watching to make sure the joke lands. "But I can handle it."

Ron doesn't laugh. "And last year?" He asks. 

Harry shrugs, thinks about the Yule Ball, about _caught on, have you._ He doesn't like this. Doesn't know what to say that will throw suspicion away from himself. Anything he says will sound too close to a confession. The things he's said are already too much.

"I said we forget it, didn't I?" Harry says, and it sounds just a little too harsh in his ears.

Ron looks down at his feet again. Harry's looking at the top of his head and he just knows that the freckles go down the back of Ron's neck and across his shoulders. The knowledge settles like heat along his sternum and he knows he has to end this conversation quickly. Better to be on solid ground than this messy in-between where feelings matter and words carry importance. 

"I wouldn't be better off without you, Ron," Harry says over the loud thumping of his heart. "That's what Fourth Year was about, mate."

Ron looks up again, the splotches of red on his face lingering like smears of finger paint. Harry tries not to notice how the freckles make a border against the red along the side of Ron's face.

"Okay," Ron says. "All right. I believe you."

Harry grins. "About time," he says. "All this back and forth was getting to me."

Ron smiles, too, pulls himself up to his full height. "Yeah," he says, making a face. "Feelings."

They shudder dramatically and laugh when they catch each other's eyes.

 _Yeah,_ Harry thinks, watching Ron drop down onto his bed. _Feelings._

*

It's the Fall of their Sixth Year, but the freckles on Ron's face still look like wildflowers rising from new summer grass. Whatever lightning bolt existed is lost among the delightful strokes of colour along Ron's nose. He's got a spattering of freckles along his entire face, his hair finally long enough that Ron can pull most of it into a small ponytail. Enough that when the sun had hit him that summer, it had gotten all of Ron's face, all the way down the back of his neck. So many freckles that Harry didn't even try to count them, too lost in the patterns, in the neverending possibilities. 

But Ron's dating Lavender this year and Hermione's mad at him because Harry is sixteen and suffering. Though Harry thinks it's unfair the way Hermione dragged Harry's confession out of him by admitting her old feelings for Ron. She used to like him in Fourth Year, "before he got annoying," she'd said, rolling her eyes so that Harry had known she hadn't been serious. 

Now, Harry watches Ron with Lavender and he can't find it annoying the way Ron swaggers into a room, that confidence like armour against Hermione's glare. He's gotten so tall, Harry has no hope of catching up to him. He just has to live with the idea that Ron will always be taller, will always have to lean down to get close enough for Harry to touch. 

These new thoughts are unsettling, forbidden things that make it hard for Harry to look Ron in the eyes. It's different from Fifth Year after the Ministry because this time Harry knows what it is. He can't hide from the way his eyes follow Ron around a room. No way to make himself go back to before he wanted Ron.

Hermione sighs next to Harry and when he turns to look at her, she's still glaring at Ron.

"Quit it," he says. 

"You're right," Hermione answers, turning her stare on Harry. "It can't be entirely his fault if you haven't told him."

"You didn't tell him either."

"I told him when it mattered," Hermione says, faint traces of red across the top of her cheeks. "It didn't...that is...Viktor asked me to the Yule Ball first."

She doesn't back down when Harry turns to look at her head-on. He nods, forces himself to go back to his essay in front of him. There's too much to do that doesn't involve worrying about Ron and the shapes his freckles make across his skin. Voldemort waits outside the castle walls and Harry's attention must be elsewhere.

"Tell him," Hermione whispers. "I doubt you'll be disappointed."

Which is just the thing, doubting doesn't make it true.

\- 

Ron turns seventeen in March and Harry gives him a bottle of firewhiskey and the box of chocolates he's been saving. For a brief moment, when Ron's holding Harry's face in between his hands, his eyes glassy and unfocused, Harry thinks Ron's going to confess. He moves forward without meaning too, overly aware of how Ron's leaning over him. 

When it turns out to be Romilda Vane's chocolates, Harry accepts the bitter disappointment as just another fact of his life. He takes Ron to Slughorn's office. They drink Mead and Ron almost dies and it's Fifth Year all over again. Harry looking for Hermione looking for Ginny, inserting themselves in the ring of Weasleys around Ron's bed. Except, this time, Hermione gives Harry meaningful looks and refuses to let go of his hand even when Harry tries to leave. 

After that, it's easy to take all the things Harry feels and push them away. He can tuck away those new feelings that linger at the back of his mind when he's alone because wanting them reciprocated will never be worth losing Ron. Harry sticks Ron firmly in the "friend" category in his head, lets his eyes wander to other people. He kisses three different boys and two girls that year, lets himself enjoy the feeling of hands in his hair and chapped lips. 

Those things make it easy to sit closer to Ron, to let their shoulders brush the way they used to back in First Year. They pour over books together, cram for their exams at the end of the year while Hermione stands over them, giving Harry pained looks. He ignores her for the most part, slips away when she tries to corner him. 

He shares an armchair with Ron, once, when the Common Room is full. Harry doesn't even think about it, just shoves Ron's leg with his foot until Ron scoots over. Ron's reading the Transfiguration notes Hermione lent him so he leans back to give Harry room to spread out his books on the coffee table in front of them. 

It's okay. 

This is what they used to do before Third Year, back when they were oblivious eleven-year-olds huddled together for warmth, unselfconscious and innocent. Harry remembers the feeling of Ron leaning against him, the absent-minded way Ron used to tap his fingers against Harry's back while he studied. At The Burrow, they'd shared Ron's bed sometimes, had slept face to face until they got too old. Until Harry had felt as though he'd been vibrating out of his skin. 

It's fine. 

There's no time to worry about what Harry might feel or what it means that Ron has a girlfriend that he doesn't allow too close. Then, Ron doesn't have a girlfriend but Harry sees him with Dean and Seamus, the three of them slipping away sometimes. And even that can't take up too much room in Harry's head because he's getting close to understanding what Dumbledore wants him to do. 

There's the cave and Harry running through the castle hallways, desperate to get to Ron and Hermione. To Ginny, Luna, and Neville. He's angry for so long, he thinks it'll burn him up inside, right up until the day they bury Dumbledore. 

The sun is bright and the skies are blue, a few clouds rolling lazily in the wind. Harry ends up between Ron and Ginny. The seats are out in the open, the summer sun falling over them, lighting up Hermione's hair in different shades of brown. Ron's sweating under the heat, the red spreading over the freckles on his face, slowly, gently. He's holding Harry's right hand and Hermione's left, his blue eyes focused on the white tomb in the distance. 

"I'm going," Harry says, halfway through the ceremony. "I'm not coming back next year. I have to finish what Dumbledore started."

Ginny starts to say something but Ron shakes his head and she goes quiet and unhappy. 

"We're going with you," Ron says, raises an eyebrow when Harry tries to tell him they don't have to. "We're going with him, right Hermione?"

Hermione looks at Harry, her expression brokering no argument. Harry looks back at Ron, the absolute certainty in his expression. He doesn't know how to tell either of them how much this means to him. But the day is bright and Ron's hand is warm in Harry's and for that moment, there's nothing more pressing than standing guard as Dumbledore's lowered into the grounds at Hogwarts. 

*

Bill and Fleur's wedding is excruciating embarrassment. Harry feels wrong-footed the moment he steps into The Burrow and Fleur floats in with a breakfast tray, her bright blonde hair flowing down her back, her sweet heart-shaped face glowing. She's duochromatic, silvery hair that stands out against her tanned skin, a sort of everlasting sun-kissed look that brightens everything about her. She kisses Harry's cheeks and the hint of citrus in her perfume reminds Harry enough of Ron that he's flustered when she pulls away. He can feel his face heating and knows he's not doing a good job of hiding it because Ron's staring at him, his eyes boring into the side of Harry's face. 

Hermione rolls her eyes but Ginny's looking between Ron and Harry, her eyes narrowed in concentration. There's something knowing in Ginny's expression that frightens Harry. He feels clumsy all of a sudden and when he picks up his mug of tea, he's shaking so much he spills some over the rim. Ron throws an orange sock at his head and Harry catches it without turning, wipes down the tea on the tray and pretends he can't feel the heat crawling up his face.

"We should go check on Mum," Ginny says, slowly.

Harry doesn't have to look up to know that she's still watching him. He knows what he'll see in her eyes and he's concentrating so hard on not looking at Ginny that it never occurs to him to keep himself safe from Fleur. When Harry glances at her, Fleur's also looking between Ron and Harry. It doesn't take her long. Harry can see the moment she understands. He hates how horribly obvious he must be if she can see it so quickly. 

"'Arry," Fleur starts, her beautiful face breaking out into a smile.

Hermione stands quickly but Ginny's the one who loops her arm through Fleur's and pulls her away. "We should go see if Mum needs help," she says, tugging Fleur out of the room.

Harry can hear them whispering as they go down the stairs but the house is full of people and the sounds of a household under wedding preparations. He turns back to Ron who's watching him from where he's sitting in the middle of the bed. His hair is flat on one side, a bright orangey-red where the sunlight hits it. They've been in the sun a lot this summer and Ron's freckles are the darkest they've been in the years Harry's known him.

"Fancy Fleur, do you?" Ron asks, trying so hard to sound casual. 

Harry frowns, taken aback by the direction the conversation is going. He looks at Ron in the middle of his bed and wonders, for a second, why it matters to Ron what Harry feels for Fleur.

"She's getting married," he says, because it's obvious. "Doesn't much matter what I think."

Ron opens his mouth and closes it. Harry's never seen him this flustered and he's fascinated by how easily Ron's ears go red. He looks back to the doorway, thinks of beautiful Fleur and her knowing eyes. He thinks of Ginny and how it's only a matter of time before she figures it out. She'll want to talk to Hermione about it and that'll be one more person who knows. The knowledge settles like lead in Harry's chest, something intrusive and wrong. 

Ron sighs and Harry turns back to him. "What?" he asks.

Ron shakes his head but Harry knows there's something he's missing.

"You're not," Harry starts, a horrible sense of realisation washing over him. "That's to say, you're not still into Fleur, are you?"

"What?" Ron asks, horrified. "No, what the fuck? She's marrying Bill."

"Yeah," Harry says. "I know."

And they leave it at that.

-

The wedding wouldn't be a problem, Harry thinks, if he didn't look so much like Ron. He stands in front of the mirror in Ron's bathroom, staring at his red hair and the dusting of freckles on his own nose. They're lighter than Ron's, farther apart though they span most of his face. Harry tries to see himself in the light green eyes that stare back at him from the mirror. 

It's easier if he thinks of what Ron had said earlier. "We'll call you Cousin Barry. You're already basically a Weasley, now you just look like one."

The easy acceptance settles into Harry's bones, leaving him warm and happy. He lets the feelling guide him through the ceremony and into the reception. He's sitting at one of the empty tables, away from the dancing people under the white tent. There are lights scattered across the garden and smaller globes of light floating around the tables, giving off a faint flowery smell, something heady and encouraging relaxation.

He sits at the table, letting his eyes roam over Ron and Hermione dancing in a circle with Ginny, Bill, Fleur, and Viktor Krum. He watches them together, the two people who matter most to him, feels deep down how his circle has expanded. He feels a terrible fondness for Ginny and her attempts to get Fleur to loosen up and just dance. Even Fleur, who he doesn't know as well, sparks a sense of belonging as though he's accepting her into his family. It's a funny thing to think. In all the years since he's known Ron and Hermione, he's never given much thought to how he belongs with them, with the Weasleys in their lopsided home. 

The summer night is warm and the darkness in the distance gives Harry the courage to admit how lonely he feels. He thinks it's because he's here but not really here, not able to go and dance. He looks at Ron and how Hermione can fit right under his arm when he twirls her. As Barry, Harry's almost as short as Hermione and it's not hard to imagine dancing with Ron. Just a quick thought that he smothers as soon as it's out. 

It feels strange to think of Ron in that way, even though Harry knows he likes Ron as more than a friend. They don't dance and it makes no sense that Harry might want that now when he hasn't before. But as he sits and watches the small group, he can't help the way his eyes stray back to Ron, to the way he moves his shoulders, just a little awkward and off-beat. 

Hermione laughs at him and Harry smiles. Even at this distance, the colour high on Ron's cheeks is unmistakable.

That's how Luna finds him, sitting at the same table, still looking at Ron, still drinking his fill. 

"Hello again, Harry," she says, her mellow voice too calming to startle him. 

Harry turns to her. He's just barely done it, just met Luna's eyes, when her mouth drops open. 

Her smile is wide and happy, and she lets out a sigh as she says, "Oh, Harry, congratulations on being in love."

Harry's too stunned for a denial. Instead, he looks at Luna and finds that he doesn't mind that she knows.

"Thanks," he says.

Luna takes his hand and together they turn back to their little group of friends, dancing away in the tent.

-

There's a lot of downtime in Grimmauld Place, enough that Harry finds himself relaxing for the first time since the first few days at The Burrow. He can feel the complacency settling deep in bones and he realises the danger of having Ron and Hermione with him, how easy it is to give into the feeling of home and safety. 

Once, he almost wishes that they could stay in Grimmauld Place forever, hiding until the grownups take care of things. It's nothing more than a fleeting thought, something in passing as Harry tidies up the sitting room. But the second is enough to allow room for the anger that Harry's been hiding so well, a deep desire to throw things until someone comes to take them away from him, a grownup, a parent. 

He sighs, reining himself in, the guilt following quickly. 

He wouldn't wish this on anyone else.

-

Nights at Grimmauld Place bring with them a different sort of atmosphere. It's as though the ghost of Sirius still roams the hallways, dejected and resigned. The stone walls make Harry feel like he's suffocating, the rows and rows of forgotten heirlooms serving to highlight just how much Harry doesn't belong in the house. He imagines Sirius alone at night, wandering these same hallways, living in a house he never wanted, existing in a space that was never his.

When Ron finds him, Harry goes quietly. They sprawl out on the largest couch in the sitting room, the one with the deep seats and the high back. The first night, they don't say anything. Ron lights the fireplace, practices some of the easier defensive spells, plays with the deluminator Dumbledore left him. He turns the lamp on and off, a constant click that lulls Harry to sleep.

On the second night that Harry can't sleep, Ron already has a teapot in the sitting room. They drink lukewarm tea with too much sugar and not enough milk. Harry tells him about Fifth Year and Cho, about Madam Puddifoot's, and this time, he leaves nothing out.

"I might have mucked it up way before the whole thing with her friend, what's her name, who sold us out to Umbridge," Harry says, sighs, and watches the fire burning in front of him. "Don't think it was fair to kiss her when we both wanted to be kissing Cedric. Which sucked because I really wanted to kiss her back in Fourth Year."

It feels wrong to admit it, even though the only person around to hear is Ron and Harry trusts Ron with his secrets. Harry tucks his knees up on the couch and lets his mind drift. He thinks back to Fourth Year, to the shape of Cedric's mouth, and how obsessed Harry had been with the wink Cedric had given him before the Second Task. He'd thought of Cedric so much over the summer that Dudley had noticed and said intrusive, unwanted things, disrespectful of who Cedric was and what his death had meant.

Harry had liked him. He'd been the first bloke that Harry hadn't been able to deny liking. The same way that he'd been unable to deny liking Cho, who was beautiful and good at Quidditch. Harry had understood liking Cho much easier than he'd understood liking Cedric. But before he'd worked out the complexity of his feelings, the year had been over and Cedric had been dead, and Harry had still wanted him. Had still wanted Cho.

"You know," Ron says, now, softly as though he's afraid of scaring Harry away. "Whatever Hermione says about the range of my emotions, I do get how much of a mess that must have been for you."

Harry frowns, the mug of tea barely warm in his hands. "I hated being fifteen," he says, finally.

"Dunno," Ron says, "I rather enjoyed the constant hospital visits. They made me interesting."

When Harry looks up, Ron's grinning over the rim of his mug. He winks when Harry doesn't look away, and the fire is warm enough that Harry can pretend it's the reason for the heat across his face. 

"Fair point," Harry says. "But it's not like sixteen was any better."

He's thinking of Hermione's knowing looks, of the love potions and the fan letters. Ron snorts and Harry raises an eyebrow in question.

"Sixteen was a good year," he says. "I dated like twelve people that year."

"Twelve?" Harry laughs. "Since when has Lavender been twelve people?"

Ron goes quiet and there's the same sense of something not-quite-right that lingers whenever they talk about things like these. Harry knows it's him. It's just his feelings getting in the way of what's meant to be easy, uncomplicated friendship. He's the one with the problem so he forces himself to turn fully to Ron. 

He's surprised to see that Ron's gone a faint shade of pink, the colour right along the freckles on the bridge of his nose. Always the freckles on the bridge of his nose, the ones that remind Harry of the star charts in Astronomy. The ones he joins in his head until they form the shape of lightning breaking across the sky.

"What?" Harry asks.

Ron shrugs. "Lavender and I only dated for a few months," he says, staring at the milky tea in his cup. "There were a couple of people after her. Some blokes."

"Oh," Harry says.

Ron nods. "It was after Lavender," he says, his voice so low Harry has to lean closer to hear it. "It just happened, then it kept happening. Didn't mind it."

Harry wants to ask who but he remembers Ron and Dean and Seamus, the three of them unobtrusive and quiet in the Common Room. Harry had noticed only because he'd been looking, because he's always looking where Ron's concerned.

He tucks his knees close to his chest, balances his mug on top, and stares off into the distance. He watches a log crack, the sparks flying upward and to the sides. He tries to parse what he's feeling, why he recoils from the faint stirring of interest at Ron's words. It matters that Ron's kissed other boys because it makes everything real in a different way. Before tonight, whatever Harry might have felt was nothing more than silent unrequited things, something to share with Hermione.

It matters that Ron kissed a man and liked it, that he's sitting next to Harry in the dark and telling him these things. 

-

Being on the run loses its appeal after the fifth time they have to eat wild mushrooms and berries. Harry's tired of sleeping in shifts, of missing the nightly conversations with Ron. Living in the campgrounds changes things. The privacy from the quiet forests makes Harry reckless, makes him lean closer to Ron while they review what they know. It keeps him awake at night, listening to the sound of Ron breathing in their tent, that quiet huff of breath every so often that means Ron's deeply asleep.

The empty wilderness gives Harry time to think, to really appreciate the way Ron looks in the morning sunlight or by the light of the fire. He's always noticing how much taller Ron is than him, how it feels when Ron reaches over him to pull something down from one of their makeshift shelves in the back of the tent. 

Ron's suddenly everywhere, no matter where Harry turns. He's there in the nights, when Harry wakes up for his watch. Always with a cup of tea ready even before Harry thinks to ask for one. It's the reduced space, the way they do their best to give Hermione the illusion of privacy. It's that Harry and Ron have always been close. It's that ever since they talked in Sixth Year, Harry had stopped trying to pretend he minded the way Ron is so tactile.

They start taking turns wearing the locket and when Harry has it, he finds it harder to ignore the way Ron's threatening to take over all his thoughts. The itch under Harry's skin is almost constant now, a distraction that gets worse whenever Ron's near. It doesn't help them, doesn't bring them closer to finding the next Horcrux so Harry pushes the thoughts to the back of his mind.

He only ever lets himself think about them when Ron's gone to bed and Harry's alone, keeping watch over Ron and Hermione. He sits on the hard ground, the chill from the early winter seeping through his jeans. He tucks his knees close to his chest and stares off into the distance. He can feel the coming winter in the temperature drop, in the way the grass crunches underfoot some mornings. His watch runs until seven in the morning when Hermione will be up and Harry will take a nap right next to the fire. If it's a good day, Harry will wake to the smell of coffee. If it's a really good day, he'll wake up with his head on Ron's shoulder, warm and rested. 

For now, though, Harry just tucks his cloak closer around himself and tries not to think of what Ron would look like kissing another man. 

-

Harry can tell when Ron's angry by the spots of red standing bright against his cheeks. He knows it's the necklace because he's felt the stirrings of uncertainty, of hopelessness, that desire to just stop their fruitless quest for nothing. But it's worse for Ron. Hermione notices, too, tries to keep Ron's turns at wearing the necklace shorter than theirs. Sometimes, Ron either doesn't notice or lets them take it away. Other times, he'll refuse.

Tonight, at the start of December, Harry can tell that it's been too much. It's Harry's turn to keep watch but Ron's still sitting on the log they'd pulled from the forest that morning, his eyes locked on the fire in front of him. He's covered in orange light, and with the sweater Mrs Weasley gave him last Christmas, he looks like he's burning. 

"Ron," Harry says, palm out. "You can give me the necklace now. Go to bed."

Ron frowns and Harry notices that he's paler than usual. They've been outdoors, camping in different woods while they try to figure out what to do, but for some reason, Ron's missed most of the sun. The freckles that usually stay well into December are gone and in this light, Harry finds that their absence makes him uncomfortable. It's as though he's looking at someone who is almost, but not quite, Ron.

"I did more than just kiss Lavender," Ron says. "Did you know that?"

He looks up at Harry, something dark and angry in his eyes. 

"No," Harry says, "But I never really thought about you and Lavender much."

Ron's smile is bitter and self-deprecating. "Of course you didn't. Why should you?" he says. "But I did do things with her. She let me touch her. Sucked me off once."

Harry inhales sharply, something tightening in his chest as he watches the light play across Ron's face. It's just the necklace, he tells himself. It's just that Ron's been wearing it too long and the thing is poison.

"Have you ever done anything with anyone?" Ron asks. "With Cho?"

"Take off the necklace, Ron," Harry says.

"Was she any good? Lavender was. Not as good as Dean and Seamus though. They liked to share, see."

Harry knows he should move, force the necklace off Ron if he has to. But the low murmur of Ron's voice is intoxicating. It roots him to the spot and it's all Harry can do to keep his hands from trembling. He knows Ron means to hurt him, even though he doesn't know why.

"Give me the necklace," Harry tries again.

Ron's breathing hard, his hands clenched into fists as he looks up at Harry. The fire is too hot, too bright, impossible to tell what exactly Ron's thinking. 

"Seamus is good with his mouth," Ron whispers, his breath misting in front of him as he leans away from the fire. "Real enthusiastic."

Harry stops pretending he's not going to listen. He feels the cold winter air at his back, watches the way his breaths come out in puffs of white that dissolve into the night. It's impossible to take his eyes away from the long lean lines of Ron's body, the way he's sprawled out on the log, his legs spread wide, all casual nonchalance. Harry can almost imagine Seamus kneeling before him, one of Ron's hands in his hair.

Before now, Harry hasn't noticed that Ron has long fingers. He hasn't noticed that Ron's hands are large enough to fit at the back of Harry's neck. 

"Want to know something else?" Ron asks, his eyes never leaving Harry's face. "Seamus loved sucking cock, especially when Dean was watching. Do you want to know why?"

Harry knows he's not meant to answer, wouldn't be able to even if Ron asked him to. He doesn't know where he gets the images from, why it's suddenly so easy to see Ron and Seamus and Dean, the three of them huddled close in whatever corner of the castle had been convenient. 

Ron waits him out, lets the silence stretch between them until Harry's skin is tingling. He can feel each of Ron's stares like caresses up his back. He's overly aware of how close they are, how Ron's almost at eye level with Harry's waist. He tries not to think about the heat from the fire, how he already knows what it feels like to have Ron leaning over him. It's so easy to translate every one of their interactions into something else, to push past Ron propping a book on Harry's back as he reads and into Ron wrapping his arms around Harry, pressing kisses to the back of his neck.

"You're a coward," Ron says and Harry's surprised to see him still sitting there. 

"Give me the necklace," Harry says.

Ron laughs, an ugly, hurt sound. "Seamus and Dean, they're a package deal, Harry," he says, his voice low and angry in the dark. 

Then, Ron stands, yanks the necklace off his neck and tosses it at Harry, his chest heaving with his attempts at holding back his rage. When Harry says nothing, Ron shakes his head one last time and leaves without a word.

-

That night, Harry dreams of Ron's hands on the back of his head, his fingers firm on Harry's scalp, easing him down. He dreams of hot kisses and the soft slide of a cock in his mouth. He wakes up hard, eyes on the ceiling of their orange tent, overly aware of Ron asleep on the other bed. He can hear Hermione moving outside. 

Harry turns on his side, his eyes finding the shock of red hair that sticks out from Ron's blankets. He breathes in slowly, counts out his breaths. Looking at Ron doesn't help, doesn't ease the uncomfortable pull all over Harry's body, as though his skin doesn't fit quite right. He exhales hard through his nose, thinks of Ron's low voice in the dark.

It matters that Ron had told him these things, that he knows how Ron likes to be taken care of. Harry wants nothing more than to put things back the way they were, to pretend he hadn't confessed things last night by not stopping Ron. 

He doesn't know what to do now and so, he turns on his side and tries to go back to sleep. 

-

It gets harder to ignore what Ron's doing, how he'll push his way between Harry and Hermione when they sit down to eat. How he always volunteers to go look for food with Harry, how he'll glare at them suspiciously if Harry and Hermione ever go off on their own to discuss theories. Impossible to ignore that it gets worse when Ron's wearing the necklace.

They don't talk about their conversation that night at the beginning of December. By mutual accord, they both pretend it didn't happen, that Ron hasn't started making unsolicited appearances in Harry's dreams. They stew in the monotony of this hidden side of the war, and Harry pretends he hasn't come with Ron's name on his lips. He ignores the guilt that simmers at the back of his thoughts, that voice telling him that Ron won't welcome Harry's advances. 

He's so angry, so frustrated, at not knowing where he stands with Ron, that he yells back, tells Ron to leave and doesn't stop him when he goes. 

-

Harry fucks up and almost ruins everything. 

He can't help himself or the burst of happiness he feels when he comes to and sees that it's Ron, whole and safe, dripping wet and holding the broken locket in his hands. He's pale and thin, long limbs and tentative smile. All of his usual charm hits differently because it's been so long.

Harry grabs his face and pulls him down, almost kisses him. Almost fucks it all up.

He's still shaking later, when Hermione comes out to meet them, wand raised, her eyes flashing with anger. It takes both Harry and Ron holding her back to finally get her to calm down. But even that's better than what Harry almost did. It scares him how easy it was to forget that he and Ron don't do that. That Ron's kissed other blokes who weren't Harry. 

He has to remind himself that it matters that Ron kissed Dean and Seamus, and not Harry.

Then, they're in another forest and Dean's there, beautiful in the morning light, his brown eyes lighting up when he sees Ron. The only hint that Ron remembers his conversation with Harry in early December is the bright splotches on the sides of his face, that smudge of red that stays long after he's no longer embarrassed. 

He doesn't look at Harry afterward, once they're out of Malfoy Manor and back at Bill and Fleur's cottage. Harry tries to catch Ron's eye while ignoring the pointed looks Hermione keeps giving him. It's worse when Fleur stops by with a tray of tea and kisses the top of Harry's head. 

" _Mon pauvre garçon,_ " she says, and Harry understands the sentiment. 

He feels oddly out of place, can't help but notice the way Dean puts his hand on Ron's arm as though he's used to the caress. It sits wrong with Harry, makes him want to look away even though all Dean does is talk to him. Harry should know better than to obsess. There are more pressing matters than the fact that Dean is tall and handsome, and Harry won't ever be as tall as either him or Ron. 

Ron's hair has gotten long and Dean mentions it over dinner, flicks the strands over Ron's shoulder. They laugh, and the sound of it, masculine and low, sends heat down Harry's back. He doesn't know what to do with himself, can't control his shaking leg. Hermione kicks him twice and Harry ignores her. He tries to listen to Bill talking about Gringotts, about the rest of the Weasleys.

It's still impossible to miss that Ron and Dean end up sharing a room.

He tries not to think about what it might mean, but the pang in his chest aches in a way that makes Harry want to scream. It shouldn't hurt so much after all this time. Not when Ron's everywhere. Not when Harry knows all of his secrets, all of his expressions, the nuances to his movements. He has Ron, more than anyone else has ever had him. 

He just can't understand why that isn't enough.

-

Harry catches Hermione talking to Ron the day before they're to break into Gringotts. He knows she's angry even though he can't see her face from his spot by the door of the cottage. She waves toward the house and whatever she says makes Ron shake his head emphatically, the sun catching on his hair, on the sides of his face. She says something again and Ron turns away from her, away from Harry.

Whatever it is, Harry knows he's not meant to bear witness, so he leaves them to it, and goes back inside.

-

Leaving them is the hardest thing Harry has ever done. The rest of it, the forest, Voldemort, the white train station, Dumbledore, none of it compares to the actual act of leaving. Coming back, winning the war, nothing hurts as much as going did. It's especially painful to wake up and know that there are people he won't ever see again, to know that it was only chance that Ron and Hermione weren't among the dead. Luck that Percy pushed Fred aside in time, that Neville caught Nagini. 

Harry hates that he left without saying goodbye, that there's no time to stop in the middle of all the chaos, that the war isn't over and Ron could still die without knowing that Harry loves him. Because that's what it is, clear as day. It's always been there, that ache, that deep yearning that Harry could never figure out. Admitting it to himself changes things, makes it so that Harry's newly determined to survive this, to tell Ron as soon as everything is over. 

They win and the world settles into place. And Harry finds that there are still things to do, people to visit, things to put right. Ron and Hermione go with him, watch him talk to Dumbledore's portrait, watch him put the wand back, watch him seal the tomb for the last time. Then, there's nothing but the sun and the breeze floating over from the lake. Nothing but the beginnings of summer freckles on Ron's face, and Hermione's hand in his.

They stand in silence for a moment, all of them breathing slowly. Harry knows they feel it too, that unburdening, the tentative almost frightened hope that this is really over. They exhale and Ron moves closer to Hermione's side. He puts an arm around her shoulders, tugs her in, and places a kiss to the top of her head. 

"We did it," he says, bright laughter clear in his voice. 

He smiles wide and happy, says it again and again until Hermione's laughing and Harry can feel the last of the tension along his shoulders easing. He grins back and it's impossible to describe the swell of emotion in his chest, an ache that speaks of coming home. 

He'd promised himself, when he woke up in the Forbidden Forest, that he wouldn't let the chance slip by him again.

"Excuse us, Hermione," Ron says before Harry can begin to gather his thoughts. 

Hermione takes a step back and Harry's still trying to figure out the expression on her face when Ron turns to him. He's beautiful in the sunlight and Harry can't do anything as Ron grabs Harry's face in his hands. 

"Your face is doing a lot right now," Ron says. 

Harry turns wide eyes on Hermione but she's smiling as she starts to walk away, fond and annoyed. _Boys,_ she mouths at Harry, shaking her head as she goes. Harry watches her until there's nothing left but to look at Ron. 

"Hey," Ron says, gently.

"What?" Harry asks, everything in him froze as he waits for what comes next.

Ron doesn't say anything, just pulls him closer slowly so that Harry can pull away if he wants to.

It's like all the years spread out before them, all that quiet ache running through Harry until he's trembling. He's spent so long thinking of Ron's hands on his face—the way they'd fit against his cheek, on the back of his neck—that it's such a stark relief to feel them now. 

For a wild moment, Harry fears he's back in the Forbidden Forest, that this is his soul's last desperate desire come to life. He reaches out because he's afraid Ron might dissolve before him. It seems unreal that Harry gets to have this, that after everything, he can feel Ron's shoulders under his hands, the hard planes of his body, his hair. He leans forward without thinking, kisses the bridge of Ron's nose, down the sides of his face where Harry's eyes have traced a myriad of shapes in Ron's freckles. He feels the heat on Ron's cheeks under his lips, brushes his mouth down Ron's jaw until he can bury his face in Ron's neck.

They're both shaking, and Harry finally understands that he won't ever be able to explain the many things Ron makes him feel, that he doesn't want explanations. All he wants is Ron's hands rubbing soothing circles along his back, Ron's mouth on the side of Harry's head, the soft way he murmurs comforting words into Harry's ear. 

Eventually, Ron pulls back. "Hey," he says, his eyes running over Harry's face. "I'm going to kiss you now. Is that okay?"

"Yeah," Harry says, the words catching at his throat.

They start again, Ron's hands on the side of Harry's face, his mouth so close, the overwhelming smell of his citrusy cologne. His mouth is hot when it meets Harry's, and it's a little uncoordinated, just a tad off-centre. It's everything Harry's ever wanted, that slight readjustment, the way they figure it out together, how Ron doesn't let go until they get it right. Until Harry feels warmth unfurling low in his belly. Until he feels like he can't breathe through how hard his heart is beating. 

They break apart and Ron's smiles, pleased. 

"What?" Harry asks, leaning forward, unable to stop himself from pressing kisses to Ron's face.

"Feels like this was always meant to happen, doesn't it?" Ron asks.

He doesn't look away, doesn't do anything but lean forward and brush their noses together.

"Yeah," Harry whispers in the space between their mouths. 

Ron kisses him again. Once more when Harry pulls him back in. 

"So what do you say?" Ron asks. "Want to let this happen and see where it goes?"

Harry thinks back to their First Year, how he'd loved the way he could mentally connect the freckles on Ron's face until they'd formed all the tendrils of a lightning bolt. He thinks of home and safety, of belonging somewhere after all these years. At the end, it really isn't a hard decision at all.

"Let's see where this goes," he says, the sound of Ron's laughter ringing bright and happy around them.

**Author's Note:**

> 💋 This work is part of the Taste of Smut Fest, a Harry Potter-centered fest dedicated to the five senses: taste, touch, smell, hearing, and sight. 
> 
> If you’ve enjoyed this work, please do shower our content creators with kudos and comments! 💌
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